Undisclosed Desires
by Ninazadzia
Summary: "Isn't it obvious?" he snorts. "For Christ's sake, you're a smart girl—you seriously didn't notice how I looked at you?" "Yeah, of course I noticed," she replies, rolling her eyes. "But I figured that's just you being you." Cato/Katniss, high school AU. One-shot.


**A/N: Disclaimer: This is VERY borderline T / M. Read at your own discretion.**

**Undisclosed Desires**

By Ninazadzia

"_You trick your lovers_

_That you're wicked and divine_

_You may be a sinner_

_But your innocence is mine …"_

-**Undisclosed Desires **by Muse

On her fourth drink, she notices that Cato is staring at her.

_Ugh, _she thinks. She scowls in his general direction and takes another drink; the vodka burns as it goes down her throat. But Cato continues to stare, either unaware or uncaring of her obvious distaste for him. (Most likely the latter, considering the fact that he's going to Duke. Smart boy.)

_Fuck you, _she thinks. Another drink. _Fuck you and your douchebag asshole varsity soccer swagger. _Another drink.

He's not the only varsity athlete in the room. No, not even close. His athletic accolades don't even come close to Katniss's. Her sport (running) doesn't involve any coordination. Nevertheless, she's the three time, two-mile, Morris County champion, not him.

Her friend, Madge, (the one hosting this party), won't _shut up. _"I'm horny. I _hate _going to parties without Gale. I always get so. Damn. _Horny." _She starts to laugh. "He needs to come homeeee."

"He'll be home in a few days, Madge, relax. You'll make it." She gives her friend a reassuring pat. "I'm going to grab us some beers."

As she meanders over to the pong table, she feels Cato's gaze burn into her skull.

She grabs two cans (as promised) then pauses, noticing the unattended bottle of fireball. _Oh, fuck it,_ she figures. Just as she's about to reach for it, it's lifted into the air.

She looks up, and (entirely unsurprised) recognizes the thief.

"Not cool, Cato," she says. She's mildly annoyed, but half a smile still plays on her lips.

He laughs, in the sneering, I'm-just-so-much-better-than-you way that he always does. "You're, what, a hundred pounds? You don't strike me as a heavyweight. Trust me, you'll thank me for this later."

She snickers. "Ahh, but you're forgetting that I have Eastern European genes." She wraps her hand around the bottle, and stares him down until he loosens his grip. "Distance runner or not," she starts, taking a long swig, "I can handle my liquor."

"Eastern European, huh? What are you—Russian? Ukranian?"

"Latvian," she answers.

"Of course, how could I forget?" Another mean smile plays on his lips. "Oh, wait, that's right—you never actually _talked _to me. Weird, since we sat next to each other for a year."

Not that she'd ever forget. Period four AP Psychology, with Mr. Brenberg. Mr. Brenberg enjoyed lecturing, so there was never much reason for the classmates to talk amongst themselves. And, even if there was, Cato wouldn't have been her first choice. She's not naturally friendly to begin with. And him? Well, there's a reason why Duke is called the "cockiest school in America."

Besides. She—the respectable, rigid person that she is—had a serious boyfriend for the entire year. He's a notorious flirt.

But, in three weeks, she'll be in college. Her and Peeta broke up at the start of the summer.

"Yeah. It's too bad," she replies.

"I know. It's a shame. It would've been nice to get to know you. I mean," he leans into the pool table next to him, "I don't know much of anything about you."

"Well, you know that I have good taste in music," she says.

He searches her for a second, and then snickers. "Right. You're a big Florence and the Machine fan."

"I think one of our two conversations was about _No Light, No Light,"_ she says.

"Two, huh? You kept track?" he asks. His douche-bag smile is ever growing. "What, so this makes this our third conversation?"

"Exactly." She lifts up her can. "Cheers to that."

"Amen."

They toast, and then drink.

"So," she asks, clearing her throat. "What are you doing here, anyway? This isn't exactly your crowd." She motions to the people around her. For some reason, the runners and hipsters often mixed in the same party group, so she often found herself with them on the weekends.

Cato, on the other hand, mixes with people from Mendham High School's uppermost social echelons. That's one of the perks of being a soccer player at a school where the sport is so highly regarded; he enjoyed four years of Greek God, high school status.

(Not that he's particularly gorgeous or anything. He's attractive, yes, but it's his prerogative that gets him all of the girls.)

"Marvel invited me." He motions to his left. "I can't say no to free alcohol and hot girls."

And now he's giving her _that _eye, the one that she hasn't gotten in close to a year and half. The one that so clearly says, _give into me, give into me, give into me._

She blushes without meaning to. Boys didn't look at her like that—not when she was dating Peeta.

"Stop it," she says. She feels the alcohol get to her head.

He raises his eyebrow a little too innocently. "Stop what?"

"Stop flirting with me." She pushes the Fireball back in his direction. "You're an idiot if you think I'm so easy. Besides, I'm not your type."

"Bullshit," he scoffs.

She raises a brow.

"What, isn't it obvious?" He snorts. "For Christ's sake, you're a smart girl, you're going to fucking Wake Forest—you seriously didn't notice how I looked at you?"

"Yeah, of _course _I noticed," she replies, rolling her eyes. "But I figured that's just you being you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You have some superiority complex. You feel like you need to have every girl you meet be madly attracted to you."

Anger flashes across his face for all of a second. And then, he very levelly goes, "So are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Are you madly attracted to me? That's what you're implying, isn't it?"

She stares at him, her brain too fuzzy to be of much use. Okay, so yes, maybe she had thought it over once or twice; it was never a serious consideration (she'd never be unfaithful to Peeta), it was only an idea she'd indulged while bored in class or when she caught him staring at her. He's attractive (much, _much _more so than her ex-boyfriend), and he certainly was an asshole. He fit the archetypal bad-boy to a T.

But, then again: she's the rigid, respectable, Cross Country captain. She gets up at five every morning to run four miles, on top of whatever they do at practice. She's in bed by eleven at the latest, she took four AP classes her senior year, and she waited until she was eighteen (at which point her and Peeta had been together for a year) to have sex for the first time.

He takes a step closer to her. God, is he different, _so _different than anyone she's ever dated. It's like that line in _The Perks of Being a Wallflower:_ "You accept the love you think you deserve." She knows that she's a decent person, and she deserves nothing less than a gentleman; and, in the process, she's willing to bypass shallow things (like physical and sexual attraction) when it comes to relationships.

_That's unfair, _a voice says. It comes from the recesses of her mind. _You're a pretty girl, and you know it. You could do so much better than Peeta._

_This is true, this is true, _she muses.

_So do it._

"Yes, I think you're attractive," she says finally. "But let's be real here—you're clearly attracted to me, too."

"Whoa there." He smirks. "Katniss Everdeen, I never thought I'd hear those words come out of _your _goody-goody mouth."

"I'm not that much of a goody-goody."

"Oh really?" His eyes (a crisp, cerulean blue) dance under the fluorescent lights. He takes a step closer.

"Really." She leans in. She says it before she can think too much about it. "You should see me in bed sometime. It would make your head spin."

He pulls away, clearly shocked. And then, he slowly goes, "Are you serious, Katniss?"

"I don't bullshit people." Her face feels hot, and the words bubble over, her filter erased by the fireball. "I want you. And, for once in my life, I don't want to do something that's good for me. I just want to have hot sex with someone, even if he's a jerk. And, Cato, I think you're the perfect jerk for the job."

"Hot sex, huh?" he muses. "Oh, babe. You haven't had hot sex until you've had it with me."

In that instant, they both choose to kiss each other; their lips collide at the exact same moment, and they stand there, paused, kissing in the middle of a room full of people. Her head, which was so groggy from the liquor, suddenly feels sharp. She feels his hands travel down her back, toward her legs, her ass—

"Not here," she whispers. "Let's get out of here."

He nods.

Thankfully, Madge lives in a mansion. The two of them walk up the stairs and of the basement. Their shoes make loud, tapping sounds as they run down the hall. They're breathless by the time they reach the room—Madge's guest room—and their clothes are already in the process of coming off.

It's nothing like it was with Peeta. Peeta, the one boy she'd ever slept with. Peeta, the gentleman. Peeta, who doesn't drink, doesn't swear, and takes her to church on Sundays. Peeta, who made sweet, sincere love to her after months of planning, months of finding the perfect time and place, after the perfect date and dinner.

Peeta, who was perpetually the only one receiving any pleasure.

This time, it's a mutual thing. This time, she doesn't have to hide her disinterest, her lack of passion, her lack of _real _attraction. She doesn't have to fake her orgasm or pretend like he's someone else. She can simply be in _that _moment with _that _boy.

There's a lot of swearing. There's a lot of dirty talk. The foreplay doesn't last long, because like most boys, he just wants to get right down to The Deed. He thrusts a little too violently at first, but Katniss gets used to it, and grows to like it. Her hands travel up and down his chest, around his shoulders, his back. It's like he's been chiseled out of marble. He's on the pale side, and he has freckles in odd places, but _he's. Not. Peeta._

She's here. She's in the moment.

Afterward, they stop. They take a break. They lie there, still touching quite intimately.

She turns to him. "Are you up for round two?" she breathes.

"Fucking God," he says. He's still panting. "You weren't kidding about making my head spin."

"Well, like I said," she whispers, "I don't bullshit people."

As she lowers herself onto him, she hears that voice in the back of her mind.

_That's not true. _More thrusting. More panting. "Oh, fuck, Katniss—" _You're fantastic at bullshitting yourself._

Well, she thinks, looking down at the boy she's riding. _I'm not bullshitting myself right now._

XXX

**A/N: I'm sincerely sorry for any rampant OOCness; I originally wrote this as an original fic, and then went, "oh-hey-this-fits-Katniss-and-Cato-decently-well." **

**If this burned any of y'alls retinas (particularly you Clato shippers), I have a plethora of Clato and Peetniss fics on here that you'll probably like much more :P**

**Thanks for reading! I hope you guys had a good weekend.**

**xx Nina**


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